


cherished

by Michinokao



Series: [[Name Redacted]] [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Insert, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, the struggle is real, there's also crack and humour because ofc there is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michinokao/pseuds/Michinokao
Summary: Sherlock is something else.Or someone, really.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: [[Name Redacted]] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940416
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	1. parts and pieces

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen any SI-fics for Sherlock.  
> So, I did one.  
> haha  
> (This is going to have three parts btw.)

**Age 19**

As far as dumb things to do to your body went, what he did wasn’t all too bad. It wasn’t great either, don’t get him wrong, but at least he didn’t do cocaine and his addiction to nicotine wasn’t _crippling_ like the Original’s had been.

Still, rows upon rows of more or less thin scars on his stomach and arms meant that people – or, rather, Mycroft – knew he wasn’t in a good place mentally. That’s probably why his brother (he shouldn’t be allowed to call him that, he told himself. He was just a bad replacement, after all.) refused to let him go unsupervised for prolonged periods of time. Maybe he even enjoyed Sherlock’s (that wasn’t his name) company too much to let him croak... he shook his head and snorted at the ridiculous notion. Mycroft was much smarter than he and more interesting all the same. Sherlock’s company wouldn’t be missed. _His_ company wouldn’t be missed, he corrected fast. Sherlock’s would’ve been had he... had he lived instead.

He took the obligatory care package Anthea’d undoubtedly put in front of his door and went right back in. The air stank of cheap takeout and even cheaper cigs he’d bought on a whim the day before. Gently setting down the box on the low couch table, he threw his tired ass on the stained sofa to inspect its contents with the aid of his trusty butterfly.

Noodles, rice, sauces, vegetables, fruit, some sweets, Earl Grey, two books and a pack of menthol cigarettes. Sherlock felt warmth in his chest and couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged on his mouth, especially when he found the hastily handwritten note.

_Sherlock_   
_Take care. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone – business trip, three weeks. If anything is the matter, call Anthea or Mrs Hudson. Try the Sudoku I circled._   
_MH_

Sherlock grabbed one of the books – one on puzzles – and flipped through it until he came across the mentioned Sudoku. His smile froze. He swallowed down the urge to throw it aside. Mycroft had circled one of the easiest ones.

Ah, there it was. The unintentional jab at his (lack of) intelligence. He lied down, thought of nothing (he was awfully good at that) and waited until he felt the hurt go away, a tiny bit. (Not entirely. Never entirely.)

He solved the puzzle within three minutes.

**Age 11**

“Is he... is he like Mycroft?”

The doctor shook his head. “No, I’m afraid he’s pretty ordinary as far as things go. He has a vivid imagination, though, and it’s not as if he isn’t clever... but he’s not even close to your elder son’s level.”

Sherlock was nothing special.

He pretended he didn’t see the awkward glances his parents threw him. He’d helped solve a murder and was too mature for his age. To them, it didn’t make sense he was nothing but a boy.

In the upcoming years, he’d pretend a lot.

**Age 18**

Sherlock didn’t have any friends. After he’d died the first time and subsequently lost his best friend, who’d practically been his soul mate, he hadn’t wanted to knit any ties to others in this lifetime. He wouldn’t have deserved them, anyways, as he was a parasite in this body. A parasite in this life.

He wrote when he used to speak to his friend. He wrote and tried not to let the emptiness suffocate him. Sometimes, he even won the fight. Mostly, though, he typed as the hollowness ate away at his lungs and smoked to fill the void with something and cut away to centre himself at skin he’d lent. Then, somewhere along the line, he’d picked up talking to the skull. Mind you, it wasn’t a real skull, unlike the one the Original had had. It was made of galaxy-coloured tainted glass that shimmered under light and cost him thirty bucks at a flea market. (He loved those. Always had.) Its name was Sherlock and it hated him.

“I tried to deduce a murder today” he’d told it once, “It didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” he’d imagined Sherlock the Skull snappishly destroying the last remnants of confidence he’d had left, “You’re an idiot. I don’t know why you thought reincarnation, of all things, would change that. You know you aren’t the Original... although you make yourself out to be, don’t you? Even before.” It, Sherlock, had laughed in a dark baritone. And “Sherlock” had fled the scene, tail tucked under his legs, and had masturbated himself into oblivion. The alternative would have been the knife and back then, Mycroft still had visited him almost daily. (Not that he’d discarded that habit afterwards.)

He stopped talking to Sherlock after that for a while.

After he’d cracked the skull in a fit of rage.

**Age 15**

“I... I really like you. Just wanted to tell you.” She even blushed cutely.

“I saw you with Dalton. Sorry, but I won’t be the butt of your shitty jokes just so you can feel better about your painfully boring fragile relationship.”

It wasn’t the first time his cheek stung.

**Age 21**

He didn’t go to university. He wrote.

Mycroft had long since stopped caring. Or he was too busy. Who knew. The care packages came without notes nowadays and were incredibly impersonal. Just some food and an envelope with money. He wondered how long his brother would feel obligated to send them.

Sherlock’s first novel came out on his former dad’s birthday. “For D.” it said on the first page of the book (neither of his dads' names began with D) and he was able to feel a little bit proud of himself – not because of the book he’d written but because he’d finally managed to deduce someone correctly, without flaw. (He’d been nice about it. Just asked questions and told the old lady he was “an empath”. It’d worked for Shane Dawson and it worked for him. “Your aura tells me everything I need to know” he’d said. She’d believed him.)

He wondered why the victory felt so oddly empty.

**Age 22**

Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson liked him. That meant he’d thoroughly fucked things up.

Sherlock had wanted to do the whole “high-functioning sociopath” act... and then he’d gone ahead and started his introduction with: “Um. So, I’m Sherlock Holmes and I-”

That was it. He just had to say his name and two out of three had perked up in interest.

“The one who’d identified Power’s murderer?” Lestrade had asked.

“The author of _Midnight Snack_ and _Kill Forever_?!” Anderson had asked. Anderson, whom the Original had labelled as ‘absolute moron’, loved his books. Of course he did. Sherlock was an idiot too and it was no wonder, therefore, that his novels were liked by the man. 

“T-The very same.” he’d replied unsurely, scratching the back of his head in a fit of overwhelming awkwardness. Sherlock signed Anderson’s napkin and explained his involvedness in the identifying process of James Moriarty (of course he lied) and ignored Sally Donovan’s flirtations. And, goddamn, that had been an incredibly terrifying ordeal.

He’d met Lestrade after he’d stood outside of a taped-off crime scene like a lost little boy and muttered deductions under his breath, piping only up a whole twenty minutes after arriving at the place – just as onlookers were getting bored of not seeing really anything at all, apart from the tape.

“Does he... does he have a brother?” he’d nervously asked a policeman, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

The man had reacted surprised to the question. “Yes” he’d said, “Mr Leitner has an older brother.”

“It was... um... you know. Ah. He has – the brother, I mean – he has a lover a-and you may find that the – the, um, lover – has financial issues. And that... that Mr – Leitner was it? – yeah, that Mr Leitner’s insurance went up right before his... demise.”

As soon as he was done with his deductions, he’d been harshly grabbed by the arm and dragged to Detective Inspector Lestrade. Which, in hindsight, proved to be entirely his fault as he’d properly given off the impression of someone who helped kill poor Mr Leitner.

Luckily, Lestrade was gentle enough with him and didn’t intimidate Sherlock into silence and, just like that, he’d managed to elaborate on the matter. (Wrong trajectory – even a straight jump wouldn’t have landed him quite _there_ – staged suicide, he was already dead at the time. Leitner had his briefcase with him – for what, if he was just going to jump? People sometimes even left their shoes behind when they planned on killing themselves, so why the briefcase? Leitner’s briefcase, barely visible from his position, had obviously been handled by two very different carers. It was shiny, polished, and yet worn in a way that suggested carelessness. Someone in his family had passed it down (and that someone hated his job and quit). A brother was more likely, since the model was quite masculine and, obviously, the brother could have killed Leitner way earlier – he had the capacity to do so, after all – but he’d chosen not to. Meaning there had to be another person, most likely a lover who needed money, involved.)

Somehow, he’d acquired the position of Consulting Detective whilst being carted off to a bar with the three of them to ‘celebrate the victory’.

Figures.

**Age 2:**

Sherlock’s first word was a sorrowful: “Fuck.” whispered into the dead of the night.

Mycroft had wanted to grab a glass of milk, incidentally passing by his brother’s crib just as the word tumbled out of the toddler’s mouth and he’d instantly known Sherlock was going to be _different_.

Alas, he had (yet) no clue just how different.

**Age 16:**

“Are you gay?” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose as he waited for Sherlock to speak.

“You know...” his brother began, “You could have waited until I was done.” Sherlock cleaned himself with a tissue and threw it into the waste bin.

“I wanted to say goodbye. The Queen needs me, as you are well aware. So, I sadly couldn’t wait until you’ve finished.”

“Mobile?”

“Dull.”

Sherlock sighed as he rolled himself into a caterpillar-looking creature made of blankets. “I’m not gay. Not straight either, nor bi or pan or ace.”

“Oh?” Mycroft was intrigued.

“Yeah, I have this thing where I can _do_ myself just fine when I imagine me being someone else. I don’t want to necessarily have sex with others, though.” Sherlock elaborated, finding no reason to lie.

The older Holmes nodded in understanding. “Of course. It would make sense, seeing as you’d have to be _you_ to have intercourse. Well, then. Good talk. I’ll see you on Saturday-”

“And you?” the younger interrupted with a smirk.

Mycroft grimaced. “Mummy won’t be happy.” was almost whined.

“You can still adopt or become a semen donor. Let Anthea carry the children and have tiny Mycrofts running around.” They shared a laugh at the quite disturbing prospect of that ever happening.

“Love you, Sherlock.” Mycroft watched as his brother flinched (again, he always did). Sherlock said it back, of course he did, but even in his own ears it sounded as if he said something he wasn’t meant to say. (Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t even meant to know Mycroft Holmes, let alone be in his vicinity.)

Mycroft closed the door.

**Age 3:**

He could’ve chosen to go with William or Scott.

He saw his existence as a restrictive punishment tied to the name Sherlock.

So, Sherlock he became instead.

**Age 24:**

He’d thought he would meet John later, at age 30 or 32. That’s why it completely took him by surprise when Mike Stamford came in with Doctor Watson at his side. 

In fact, it may have taken him too much by surprise.

(Why, though? It’s not as if he looked like Benedict Cumberbatch or Sidney Paget’s illustrated version of Sherlock Holmes. Discrepancies in appearances and ages seemed to happen regularly and at this point, he should have stopped taking things for granted.)

“What the – How old are you?!” Good job. Yes. Scream at him, queen. Sherlock’s hands flew to his mouth and as the telltale heat overtook his ears, he heard John’s chuckle.

“Why, I’m thirty, if you meant me.” the man answered smoothly. As if, you know, Sherlock had behaved entirely normal.

Thirty. Six years older than Sherlock. Was that at least accurate? He didn’t know.

“Oh. Um. Yes. Thirty sounds great!” Oh god. He tried to backpedal (which only made things worse, somehow), “The perfect age, haha! How was Afghanistan?!”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?” he asked slowly, his stance obtaining a sort of military quality that sent anxious shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

“Uh... no. Sorry, I do that sometimes. Bad habit. Really bad habit. Should probably stop doing that, yes. So, um. Hi, I’m Sherlock Holmes-”

“The gay writer?”

Sherlock’s world shifted upside down. John knew. He _knew_.

“Um, actually, my books are gay. I’m more of a disaster... not in bed! But, sexually. And socially. But yes, yes, that’s me. I’m Sherlock, hi.” he stuttered, attempting to string together words which would vaguely make sense in the order he put them.

The ex-soldier’s frown deepened.

“Yes.” Sherlock said again. His gestures became more and more erratic the longer he tried to explain the situation: “I don’t know you! You know me, of course. I mean... not _of course_ , of course! But you do seem to know me. Mike, please stop laughing. So, I, ah. What’s the name...?”

“John Watson.” John said unimpressed.

“Ah, Mr Watson. Yes. Good. The thing is, I’m not only a gay erotica author but also a CD.”

“A CD.”

“Oh. No, not as in a disc for music – I’m a Consulting Detective. And that’s why I knew you had to come from Afghanistan! Iraq would have worked too but I just went with Afghanistan because why not... haha haaaa...” Sherlock was pretty sure if this mess of a conversation didn’t clear itself up anytime soon, he’d flee the scene in an impressive display of dramatic bolting.

John let out a sigh. Directed at Mike, he joked: “That’s _a little bit special_ for you?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why he’s like that today. Normally, he’s just... I don’t know, man. Better?” Mike was an ass, Sherlock decided.

“Ugh. I. Alright.” Inhaling and exhaling deeply, the part-time detective centred himself and began anew: “Mr Watson... could I call you John? Alright, John. Here’s the deal: Your skin is unnaturally tanned, you have an obvious military haircut – it grew out a bit but it’d been one about six months ago. You have a psychosomatic limp and a soldier’s stance. Ergo: War. Either Afghanistan or Iraq, based on the tan and military career. Also, your clothes are distinctly camouflage-coloured, albeit a picked-apart camouflage. Green jacket, dark grey trousers, beige jumper. You look military.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow. That’s... How...?”

“I’m an Empath!” Sherlock winced. Maybe he shouldn’t tell John that lie. (It didn’t make sense in this context anyways.) With the Yard and his private clients, it worked fine but this was going to be his colleague (hopefully... if Sherlock was Sherlock enough this time... which he currently decidedly was _not_ ). “Just kidding. I taught myself how to deduce things based on appearances, smells and the likes.”

“That’s brilliant!”

Shit.

_Shit._

Sherlock swallowed as he felt the tidal wave of John’s compliment sweep him off his feet.

“Thanks. Wanna... go eat dinner with me?”

John’s answering smile was perhaps the brightest thing Sherlock’d ever seen in this lifetime.

“Sure, Mr Disaster.”


	2. A Study in the Bisexuality of John H. Watson

**The Denial**

“I’ve come to the conclusion that hitting the wall can go terribly wrong.”

John took in the scene and willed himself not to immediately walk out again. It was way too early for stuff like this. He rubbed his temples, sat down next to Sherlock’s twisted form and assessed the damage.

“It’s only a little swelling, nothing broken as far as I can tell.” he said.

“Good” Sherlock voiced, one of his legs bending so far it connected with his shoulder, “Greg said he had a case for us but I solved it already.”

John sighed. “You could’ve, I don’t know... made breakfast or something. Not hit the wall out of pure boredom and frustration.”

“It was a Two. They called me for a Two. The scale is One to Thirteen and they called me for a _Two_. I’m just... I’ve lost hope, John. I’ve completely lost it.” Sherlock wailed lowly – like a dying whale, John thought and refused to be amused by his flatmate’s dramatics. He was a perfectly normal guy and to give in to Sherlock’s Sherlockness would mean he’d let his normalcy be tainted. (Maybe it was already too late for that – he was literally sitting on the floor.)

The doctor asked nonetheless: “And? What was it about – the case?”

“Ughhhhh. You won’t believe me, my dearest Watson! It was _awful_! Alright, so, there was this girl – fourteen years old – who was murdered with a baseball bat.”

“A kid?” John demanded incredulously.

Sherlock made a wave motion with his hand. “Eeeh. Teenager – murdered kids are something else entirely. This one, though. They ruled out the one kid who’d been STALKING her for AGES. You know why? Because HIS MOM said he was home the entire night. Mind you, she locked his door. That’s why it was a Two and not a One. But nobody – not Greg, not Philipp, not Sally – nobody! Looked inside the boy’s closet. So I said: _Look in the closet._ And Philipp said: _Okay, hold on._ because Philipp likes me and he does the things I tell him to do without questioning my every step – unlike Sally, you know? You know what he found? An _unholy_ amount of bed sheets, dirtied and stretched into oblivion. AND I HAD TO SERIOUSLY EXPLAIN WHY THIS PROVED HE WAS THE MURDERER. John, I CAN’T. I LITERALLY CAN’T WITH THEIR STUPIDITYYYYYY!”

John lost it. There his normalcy went – flying out of the window like that boy who used one of the most common movie tropes to break out of his own house. He chuckled even harder when Sherlock wailed: “PHILIPP STILL DIDN’T BELIEVE ME WHEN I TOLD HIM THAT WOULD WORK! SO THE ENTIRE MET HAD TO ROPE DOWN THE HOME OF THAT POOR WOMAN BEFORE THEY BELIEVED ME! FUUUUUCK.”

A good-natured pat on Sherlock’s shoulder made him shut up.

“Sucks to be you.” was John’s unhelpful answer to the other’s tirade. Sherlock’s pout could by then be categorized as ‘dangerously downtrodden’. To punish his flatmate, the detective decided to crush him under his weight.

“Oof” John remained buried underneath Sherlock’s lanky body for way too long, probably stunned speechless at the sheer audacity, and failed his following attempt at pushing him off. “So... how long d’ya wanna cuddle on the floor?” he joked.

“Mpf.” came promptly the answer.

“Ah, yes.” John said, blinking up at the ceiling (which was coated in children’s glowing star stickers and suction-cupped arrows Sherlock had probably shot up there in a previous bout of boredom, the git). Normally, his absolute heterosexuality wouldn’t have allowed him to bask in the strangely peaceful prospect of Sherlock’s torso pinning him to the ground but, for some unfathomable reason, said heterosexuality had decided to leave him behind for the time being. When John felt Sherlock nuzzle his cheek at his jumper (it was his softest, no wonder his friend would like the texture), one of his hands automatically landed on the ridiculous mop of inky black waves that naturally stood up in odd directions.

“It’s not gay if we say _No Homo_ afterwards.” Sherlock’s smooth voice interrupted the comfortable silence.

“No Homo?” John asked amusedly.

“No Homo. But, actually...” Sherlock cleared his throat as something brushed against John’s thigh, “I think this is more accurately _Maybe Homo_. Woah, I’m surprised he does that! Magnificent, my dick likes you, John!”

Helpless giggles followed. Apparently, John found the whole ordeal incredibly funny instead of, say, highly disturbing.

“Well, I’m... I’m glad your... um... dick thinks I’m worth the effort.”

“He says thank you too. Because he's never reacted like that in the vicinity of somebody else.”

“Oh, really?” John hummed thoughtfully, “Was it... was it plugged in all of the other times?”

Sherlock laughed into his flatmate’s neck. “Shit, I didn’t even think to look.”

“See, that was the problem all along. Now, hush. I have tea to make.” He really didn’t but his sexuality was knocking on the front door and demanding to be let in. It screamed profanities through the wood but, in all honesty, John didn’t want to grant it access. However, he’d lived thirty years of his life with it inhabiting his body and to throw it out after all this time just because Sherlock’s shampoo and his breath both smelled of mint and he found it oddly adorable how obsessed his flatmate was with the particular taste? (They had mint tea, mint chocolate, mint toothpaste, mint shampoo, mint deodorant, mint chewing gum, mint air freshener, even menthol cigarettes... you get the gist.) No. John was definitely not going to give up on his very comfortable conformist sexual identity _that_ soon. Maybe when he didn’t feel the need to cry _“We’re not a couple!”_ during dinner dates anymore – and, yes, Angelo’s counted as a date because Sherlock didn’t deny it and accepted the romantic candle graciously. Maybe when he didn’t hear his dad’s scathing and very homophobic slurs every time he wanted to tousle Sherlock’s wild hair. Maybe when he didn’t feel his throat tighten when he thought of sexuality labels.

Sherlock immediately lifted himself from his position without any questions. (John felt cold. Wanted to draw the detective down again. Didn’t.) “No Homo!” Sherlock exclaimed with half a hard-on very visible through dark green sweatpants.

John tried not to let his gaze wander. He gave Sherlock a thankful nod, saw the remark for what it was: Acceptance of John’s Problems.

He headed for the kitchen after inquiring whether his flatmate would like a cup as well (he did) and just as he was about to enter it, he cleared his throat and said out loud: “No Homo.”

Sherlock just snickered behind the cover of one of his manga.

**The Anger**

John’s blog entries were all very unspecific. When you had a well-known erotica author (a _gay_ _erotica_ author) as a flatmate, you didn’t just write that into a blog where everyone could see it. Sherlock also sat him down and told him to keep quiet about his actual identity. That’s why, when John wrote about Sherlock, he called his friend _Will_.

“Why _Will_ of all things?” John had asked.

“It’s literally my name.” Sherlock had confessed with a shrug.

That’s how he found out the man had _three_ first names and just happened to use his second one most frequently.

“So, technically, you’re also a Scott.” John’s mouth corners had quivered. A Scott Sherlock was not. (Great rhyme.)

“Technically, _you_ ’re a _Hamish_.”

“...touché.”

John’s blog included, thus far, two case descriptions and one post about Sherl – sorry, _Will_ – which read as following:

Will **  
**_by @jwhatsup_

Here’s a list of things I know about my new flatmate Will:

1 – He is obsessed with mint and Japanese comics.

2 – He talks to himself frequently.

3 – I thought he was joking when he referred to himself as _Mr Disaster_ but that was not a joke at all. Will is a disaster. Yesterday, I caught him singing _Wuthering Heights_ at five am in the kitchen while he was making pancakes.

4 – He makes delicious pancakes.

5 – Despite having a really smooth speaking voice, that man is absolutely tone-deaf when it comes to his voice (he can play the violin just fine).

6 – No, he didn’t wake up early. He was still going.

7 – I’ve accidentally become a househusband because he’d suffocate in dirt if I didn’t clean the flat. Although it’s nice to have someone who knows how to cook, I wished he’d also do the dishes afterwards.

That entry had two comments:

**_@harwat.1_ **

haha sounds rad lemme meet the mf sumtime bro

**_@CumDolphin_SaltyHoe_ **

At least you accept your fate. Thank you for appreciating my food. – Will

John didn’t know how to react to Sherlock’s username on his blog. Granted, it did have a ring to it. It had... It was way too obscene for any self-respecting individual to use.

“That should’ve been the first fucking clue.” he thought, kinda sarcastically, kinda not.

Things had been going well up until his third case with Sherlock. Naturally, John was still all about suppressing his growing fuzzy feelings for this weird author/illegitimate detective he met only a couple of weeks prior – but he was starting to grow comfortable around them. Around Sherlock.

Then Sherlock bloody Holmes did an absolute _Scott_ move and jumped right in front of a knife to catch a stab meant for John. It was idiotic. It was insane. It didn’t make any sense at all because Sherlock had way less body fat than John.

It was also, admittedly, the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him.

Still.

It landed Sherlock in the ER and the ER meant he had to undress. Which led to John finding out about The Scars.

Sherlock really did not give a single damn about himself.

John sat at his side throughout the night, a feat that shouldn’t have been possible but, for some reason, was made possible _just for him_. Maybe Sherlock’s so-called “Government-Invested” brother had a hand in it. Didn’t matter in the end. What mattered was that he could unabashedly angrily stare at Sherlock for more or less six hours straight.

He was pissed. The doctor wasn’t often one to harbour bad feelings – not for that long a time, anyways – but he nearly lost that damn git because said idiot thought: “Yes, _I_ need to protect my _ex-army_ friend... I, as the skinny twink I am.”

Also, seeing those red and faded white lines crossing Sherlock’s arms was like a punch in his gut. How had he not noticed anything?! Some of them were _fresh._ John had probably been present in their shared home while Sherlock was ripping his flesh apart god only knows how many times.

After three hours, John had migrated from the cheap hospital chair to the side of Sherlock’s bed, mindfully staying out of the wound’s vicinity. His anger simmered like a stew left accidentally on the lowest heat setting. It wasn’t boiling anymore but he knew as soon as his friend woke up, it would awaken as well.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open just past eight in the morning.

John greeted him with a growl.

“What... what happened?”

“YOU.” the ex-soldier hissed out the word, had to inhale deeply through his nose before continuing, “You goddamn _moron_. What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Sherlock’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. John didn’t care: “You could’ve DIED. You could’ve died _because of me_. Do you have ANY idea what that would have done to me?! And what the FUCK is THAT all about?! Why are you so self-destructive for **_NO_** REASON AT ALL?!” His breaths end up being choked in sobs. Yes, how dare he? (How dare he nearly die when John hadn’t yet figured out how to accept this thing they had?!)

The victim of John’s verbal onslaught visibly attempted a retreat into some nonexistent shell. All it did was make him look as if he snuggled further into the hospital’s bed sheets.

“I... I’m sorry, John. I didn’t think. I thought I could... I mean” A sniffle.

Shit.

John deflated like a balloon with a gigantic hole poked in it. “Hey, don’t cry. C’mon, I’m sorry I got loud but I was just so, _so_ worried about you. I’m... I’m not even mad at that.” he said roughly, gently lifting one of Sherlock’s arms, “I. I really wouldn’t have known what I’d do if you had bled out on me. I want you to understand this. You are currently all that’s holding me here.”

He felt Sherlock flinch.

“...What?” the other whispered, shock written on his face. And god, he looked so _young_. John didn’t even remember what he was like at age twenty-four. All he recalled were poor life decisions, alcohol, alcohol leading to poor life decisions and a lot of studying. Sherlock didn’t have a normal life, it hit John then. Sherlock was living as if he didn’t have anything left to lose. (He knew what such a life looked like. He’d been living like that before.)

“Yes” John spoke quietly, taking Sherlock’s trembling hand in his, “I always kept my gun clean and ready. A month or two. I don’t think I’d have made it to thirty-one if I hadn’t met you.”

“Fuck” Sherlock snorted. One could see it wasn’t out of amusement. “We have a lot in common, haven’t we?”

Something dropped. John was pretty sure it was his entire heart.

“You don’t mean...” His own voice sounded pathetically distorted in his ears.

The detective avoided his eyes. “There are approximately forty notes I’ve written for my parents, my brother and more recently my colleagues. Man, I don’t even know why I wrote so many. They were all the same anyways. Always the same words. Always the same handwriting. Maybe I thought something would change over the course of two decades but it never did. I didn’t think I’d live past twelve. Then I didn’t think I’d live past fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one... I obviously made it past them all but I’d been walking on bridges at night for a couple of weeks before you came, John.”

“You have struggled with this for so long?”

“If I weren’t such a coward, it’d have been over when I was twelve, yes.” Sherlock grinned emptily.

John’s anger resurfaced. It hit him hard, boiled his chest. Made him grit his teeth and tighten his hold on the other man’s hand.

“Listen here and listen closely. You’re ** _not_** a coward for choosing life.”

“But-”

“No. No buts.” he said firmly.

Sherlock breathed in, breathed out. Sunk against the elevated headrest and closed his eyes. Didn’t let go of John’s hand.

“Sometimes, it doesn’t feel as if I deserve a say in that matter.”

The doctor leaned closer, forced his father’s voice to disappear into the depths of his mind as his other hand landed on unwashed and sticky black hair.

“It’s _your_ life.” John whispered as if sharing a secret.

Sherlock mumbled something. Something that suspiciously sounded like: “I wish it was.”

John didn’t prod. He knew it wasn’t yet time to head into that conversation.

 **(** Sometimes he caught Sherlock talking to himself in the middle of the night, pacing back and forth in their small living room.

Other times, he caught Sherlock hugging the walls, licking tapestry, leaning his forehead against the rough surface and afterwards chanting: “It’s real. _I’m_ real.” **)**

He refused to leave the hospital until Sherlock was released.

**The Bargaining**

“Yeah, okay, but what if I drink only three cans per day _and_ drink two litres of water?”

“That’d still be a ridiculous amount of caffeine. So, no, we’re not going to buy them.”

“But Jeeeaaaayyyhhhn... my brain won’t work without them!”

“Is that my problem?”

Sherlock gaped at the audacity. “Uh, yes? Of course it’s your problem. You know how much I sleep when I’m not sufficiently plastered with energy drinks?” he asked sassily and put yet another can into their shopping cart. Luckily for John’s general embarrassment tolerance they weren’t being loud in their argument. Still... having an argument in front of an audience in general made him feel not only uncomfortable but as if he were an animal at the zoo.

The doctor pinched his nose bridge. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. Deep breaths. “Sherlock. I am a doctor. I _want_ you to sleep well.”

“And I understand that perfectly-”

“I don’t think you do, to be honest” John interrupted grumbling.

“No, really, I do! But there’s a difference between sleeping a healthy amount of hours – let’s say seven, right? – and sleeping for thirteen hours straight, then being awake for five and then napping for another three before waking up again.”

John stared at his flatmate. “You want to tell me” he began slowly, “that you would sleep _sixteen_ hours per day if you didn’t drink this stuff?”

“Yes”

“But you did go to see a doctor about that... didn’t you?”

“No worries. Mycroft made me go.”

“Mycroft is my personal hero.”

“Yesterday, Mycroft sent me a pic of you picking up a coin and wrote under it _when my brother’s boytoy is broke._ ”

“I hate Mycroft.”

Sherlock giggled. They were still standing in the middle of the aisle, making it nearly impossible for others to pass by without careening into their cart. (It happened twice already. Maybe they should move. Maybe.) 

The detective explained: “I have a general lack of motivation when I don’t drink them.”

“That’s called _being depressed_.”

“...yo.”

“What?”

“I just combined ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I could’ve also gone with nes.”

They stared at each other.

Another cart bumped into theirs.

“How about two cans and two litres water?”

“No”

“One? C’mon, John. We can’t be here all day.”

John looked at the pile of cans that still resided in their cart. “Okay. _One_ can per day. And enough hydration. And we’re putting half of them back because that’s just a ridiculous amount-”

“They’re on sale, see?”

“I really don’t care if they’re on sale or not.”

“My wallet cares.”

“Oh, does it now? Where was all of that care when you bought a... what was it called – a daki... dari... a freaking _body pillow_ of Kakashi on impulse three days ago?”

Sherlock pouted as he neatly shelved exactly half of the cans back where they came from. John counted it as a victory because you just never could entirely win with his big baby of a flatmate.

“Kakashi is my husbando” said baby muttered defiantly just to prove John right.

**The Depression**

In the last few days, Sherlock had grown quieter and quieter. So it was to absolutely nobody’s surprise that one day, when John woke up from a rather odd dream about a bunny eating a skeleton in a basement, the flat was coated in complete silence. It was eerie at first because he’d grown used to the TV (always connected to Sherlock’s outrageously expensive gaming PC or one of their laptops) noisily echoing some anime protagonist’s powerful speech or the small but efficient speakers playing sea shanties but he quickly adjusted himself to the circumstances.

That day, each of his footsteps sounded like individual little earthquakes on the old and creaky flight of stairs leading up to his room.

That day, even his breathing was too loud.

John automatically went to look whether Sherlock was in their apartment or had, on a rare epiphany, gone outside even without a case active. He found him sitting on the couch, though, bundled up in his Akatsuki-themed duvet hugging the Kakashi body pillow. Sherlock was not asleep, however, but stared intently at nothing at all.

The doctor felt an urge inside him to speak. He did not.

What he did was to move the chair to where Sherlock’s head rested – as quietly as possibly as to not disturb the mourning atmosphere (what were they mourning?) – and sat down on it. John started out slow by hesitantly petting Sherlock’s hair but, with time, let it grow into something akin a head massage.

“Am I allowed to enjoy this?”

John flinched at the sudden question. “Enjoy what? This?” he asked back, emphasizing the massage for the point’s sake.

“Yes. No. I mean...”

“...yo?” the ex-soldier couldn’t help but interject. At least it made his flatmate huff out a tiny laugh.

“Ah. I feel like this is described better by nes. But... John?”

“Hm?”

“What if I told you I’m not supposed to be Sherlock Holmes?” It was rushed, hurried in a way that didn’t allow John any doubt in the seriousness of the inquiry. This, John thought, was that dreaded conversation they’d postponed in the hospital. He blinked but resumed the strokes in an unbothered, bordering lazy fashion. Suddenly, he was reminded of that one time he’d caught Sherlock dressed in a skirt. “Is this you coming out as transgender?”

“What. No, I just occasionally wear feminine clothing. What I mean... it goes... deeper than that.”

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock’s vagueness. God, why couldn’t that man for once actually tell him what the issue was rather than to let him guess until he got it somehow right?

Well, Sherlock seemed to deduce John’s exasperation because he literally burst into a million words: “Okay, okay, um. What I mean is... what if I have lived before? Like, what if I’ve been reincarnated into this body – this body of Sherlock Holmes, yeah? And what if, hypothetically – please, if you aren’t going to believe me, just take all of this as purely theoretical – but what if Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be this genius character, written by some guy called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in, like, mid 19th century? What if, furthermore, this character of Sherlock Holmes got his modern TV adaptation series called “Sherlock” – very imaginative, I know – and what if that’s who I am right now? But what if, like, I’m not him? Not even close? A-And I’m actually just some random guy who’s been struggling with becoming a great detective all of his life because that’s what this Sherlock Holmes character is supposed to be? And Sherlock Holmes is also supposed to be friends with Doctor John Watson but what _I_ feel for you is so much more than friendship? I... I feel like I’m ruining _his_ life every time I do something _he_ wouldn’t.” he breathed out a hiccupping cough, “Yeah, John, what if all of that’s the case?”

John took in a deep breath, let it curl in his lungs, exhaled it in one go and gazed at the stars (or tried to anyways – there was a whole ass ceiling in his way). “What the fuck?” slipped through his lips. Damn, his lips were chapped. He should really invest in some chap stick.

He waited nearly a whole decade for Sherlock to write this whole thing off as a joke before John realized: “Shit, this isn’t a joke.”

“So, you’re telling me the whole Multiple Dimension thing is not only real but _also_ reincarnation is something that happens in tandem?”

“ _You_ are telling _me_ you believe me... just like that?” *

John shrugged helplessly as blue eyes blinked up at him.

“You occasionally know things you really shouldn’t. Even with your brother’s interference, I think it’s impossible to know what kind of entertainment is being created at the moment.”

“Oh. Ajin.” Sherlock said, nodding tight-lipped. John had subconsciously started to investigate certain cases – certain key moments when his friend completely lost himself in his head and started to ramble about manga and anime that either only just came out or hadn’t been published yet. He’d kept thinking to himself: “Well, maybe Mycroft is giving him info.” but that would still not explain Sherlock’s vast knowledge about the plot progression of series that had so far only one or two episodes. 

“Yes. Not only that, though” the doctor explained, inclining his head to the cracked galaxy-coloured skull on the mantelpiece, “Sometimes you lose your temper hard when you’re confronted with a deduction you think you should’ve made sooner - even if it's nonessential to a case.” then, he moved on to the wall, “Sometimes you hug the tapestry. Sometimes you lick it. Without fail, you try to reassure yourself in those moments of your reality.”

“Oh. You saw.”

“I can't sleep sometimes. You also play the violin grotesquely, like you want to like it but you don’t, not really... actually. I think you do like it but only when you don’t force yourself to play classical pieces. I assume the TV version of you played them...?”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he gave John a pained grimace that barely counted as a smile and quipped: “Be glad I only emulate his nice style. BBC Sherlock does _this_.“

In a flurry of energy, the younger man jumped up, grabbed the instrument and shredded out an array of disturbing screeches that followed absolutely no pattern at all. “He does this in the middle of the night, the madman! In the _middle of the night_ , John! Could you imagine?”

John grimaced at the mental image. “I’m suddenly really appreciative of your Wuthering Heights renditions.”

Sherlock’s mouth moved into a manic grin. “Right? I’m allowing myself to be myself every once in a while just because I’d go _insane_ if I had to listen to that.”

“That’s... not exactly healthy. You should be you, regardless of your... affliction.”

“When have I ever been healthy? I took all the shoddy habits from my past life and ingrained it into this one. I have self-worth issues the size of Great Britain. I’m so bad at this... at all of this. The wall should’ve been shot months ago. I should’ve had an arch nemesis called Moriarty. I should’ve been this cold and imposing figure of a man who is despised and equally respected by his colleagues. I should’ve hated Mycroft – I don’t even really know why. Because he’s smarter? Because he didn’t need the cocaine-”

“The _what_ now?!”

“Cocaine, John! BBC’s Sherlock is... was... oh, I don’t fucking know, _is_ an ex-junkie. I don’t even know how I’d go about buying drugs! And if I did, I wouldn’t be able to do it because I’m so socially awkward it’s not even funny anymore.” Sherlock sunk back into Kakashi’s scantily clad body. John tried to process the entire load of information that was just dumped on him; tried to fit the little pieces together until they made a picture.

When he did, the picture he looked at was sad. Forlorn. A restless thing filled with self-hatred and identity crisis.

“You think you shouldn’t be allowed to be him.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He looked at least twenty years older all of a sudden.

“I really shouldn’t.” the dete – no, John corrected in his mind, this version of his best friend was more writer than detective (maybe he’d always been) – croaked out tiredly.

John blew air through his nose. He didn’t know what to feel, so he ended up with all sorts of emotions mixed into a soup that was way too spicy and tasted bitter as well as anxious.  
“You’re an idiot.” he finally said.

Sherlock flinched as if struck by John’s ready fist.

“Not because you lack intelligence but because you’re such a _dumbass_ I _can’t_... god, Sherlock. William. Whatever your name was before you got thrown into this body. I really don’t give a damn. This version of John Watson has never met BBC’s Sherlock. _This_ version of John Watson would actually probably hate BBC Sherlock’s guts. You know why? Because he sounds like a douche, a real jerk, and you honestly think I’d trade you for _him_? You’re still a detective because you ARE good at it – whether you forced yourself to be or not – but you know what else you are? You are a gay erotica author. You’re a nerd. God, you’re _such_ a nerd, just look at you! I’d never lo- _ike_ BBC’s Sherlock like I like _you_.”

When John was done with his impromptu tirade, he stood up, plummeted down onto the couch and dragged Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug. The git _needed_ it. Clung to John as if he were a koala (cute) and the ex-soldier’s fingers clawed into the backside of the black random band tee Sherlock hadn’t bothered to change in the last week. (It smelled strongly of Sherlock’s mint-obsessed self. A smell John found incredibly profound in a way that was hundredfold printed in shitty romance novels. He’d never been fond of mint but now he wanted to greedily devour it until every mint leave on planet Earth was his.)

“You’re worth more than a hundred BBC Sherlocks.” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear as he pressed him against his chest and swallowed down another sip of the soup that his feelings have been stirring quietly in the background.

“And... and you’re worth more than a hundred BBC Johns.” Sherlock sobbed into his neck like a lost child. “BBC John would be a great name for a porn star.” Scratch that. He sobbed into John’s neck like a lost pervert.

John couldn’t help the giggle from breaking loose.

And, somehow, everything was kinda alright after that. (Kinda.)

(Well, not really but it was... smoother.)

**The Acceptance**

“I’m b...” he halted, sucked in a meditative breath and slowly breathed it out as he stood in front of the mirror – like an idiot, one might say. “I’m bisexual.” he whispered.

“I’m bisexual.” a second attempt at making it sound more natural and less like he was reading off of a script. And because third time’s the charm, he yet again said those two meaningful words whilst looking himself in the eyes: “I’m bisexual.”

John leaned his forehead against the mirror – fog, clear, fog, clear – and closed his eyes to subject himself to his previously judgemental thoughts. It was... okay, he guessed. Could be better. Had been worse. Had been worse a lot only a couple of days prior.

He’d almost confessed his love to his best friend aka flatmate aka The Dimension Traveller aka Only Consulting Detective aka Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes aka... yes, well, he could go on and on. The man had aliases en masse.

Ever since then, John was doing all he could to finally exorcise the demons (sperm donors) of his past and while he had not achieved full results yet, he was set on this path.

This stony, odd-wriggled path he’d chosen.

John let the mirror fog up again. It was going to be alright. (Kinda.)

(But that was okay, too. Because they were "kinda" people, imprinted by life and melancholic when happy. A bit fractured. A bit odd. But it was them and that's all that mattered.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * yo, guys, this is a deleted scene. THAT'S HONEST TO GOD THE FIRST DRAFT OF THIS SCENE ergheuifhjweroiujw:
> 
> “It would explain a lot. Like that one manga you were able to predict – Ajin...wait a second.” Scenes flashed behind the doctor’s eyes. He stilled in his tracks. “Oh no.”  
> “What?”  
> “When you said... when you said Naruto ends with almost all women married and with kids and... Boruto?!”  
> Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Yes. Boruto is going to be real in three year or so.”  
> “No... I don’t. Why? Why would they?” John felt his world turn upside down. Someone else might’ve had a crisis over something more important than that (like the fact he was apparently a fictional character in a parallel universe) but through Sherlock he’d been growing more and more invested in Naruto. To hear that that one off-handed remark his friend had made about the unbelievably shitty ending of said story was actually true was like getting punched in the privates.  
> “But! John, John? Listen! It may not come true – there are discrepancies between BBC’s Sherlock and this dimension!”  
> “There... there are?” John asked haltingly.  
> “Yes – you know Benedict Cumberbatch?”  
> “The actor?”  
> “Yeah, him. He played Sherlock. And Martin Freeman played you.”  
> John gagged. “Alright, I guess there’s hope yet.” 
> 
> FWERIJFEUJWRFHWERFH I'M SO SORRY I'M SUCH A MEAN DUMBASS WTFFFF


	3. Outtakes

**First Real Date**

A candle was candidly placed in the middle of their table and the waitress excused herself with a slight nod after noting down their orders.

“So... John, right? Do you come here often?” Sherlock asked as he excessively wiggled his eyebrows, suggestively dipped a finger in wax and licked it clean off.

John giggled, shaking his head at his dumbass of a flatmate (and boyfriend). “God, you can’t just lick everything you come across.”

Even more suggestive eyebrow-wiggles followed as Sherlock replied with: “But I am _so good_ at licking things!”

“Yes, walls.”

“...not only walls but also...” the detective leaned closer and whispered breathlessly: “ _Floors!_ ” which threw John into yet another fit of poorly-contained cackles.

“But, in all seriousness, let’s decide on the topic of our first date.” Sherlock declared eagerly.

“Topic, huh? How about likes and dislikes, now that I am no longer casting aside everything feminine because of some internalized bullshit and you... well, you’re now yourself?” John suggested with a disarming smirk that accidentally made Sherlock stick his finger too close to the flame.

“Ouch. But yes, likes and dislikes. Favourite and least favourite colour?”

The doctor hummed. “Such a difficult one already? Well, okay. My favourite colour’s green and my least favourite has to be red.”

“Red as your _least_ favourite?!” A look of faux horror fluttered across Sherlock’s face. “John, John, _John!_ There are so many great shades of red – so many _beautiful_ and _unique_ tones... how dare you discard red like that? What has wine red ever done to you?”

John inhaled deeply, cast his gaze aside and said mournfully: “It’s just... very ugly.”

“Ugly?! I’d understand it if we talked about burnt orange or dirty yellow but to use wine red and ugly in the same sentence when there’s no _isn’t_ in between is a cardinal sin.” Sherlock argued hotly.

John didn’t give in: “I think burnt orange is a perfectly acceptable colour to like!”

A gasp, then exclaimed disgust: “Ew!” Sherlock leaned away, grabbed one of the folded napkins and dabbed at his eyes dramatically. “Burnt orange... honestly...” he muttered to himself.

“Well, if you’re so high and mighty, how about you tell me your favourite colour?” John provocatively requested.

“Fine!” Sherlock haughtily said, “It’s purple.”

“Aha! There we have it. Purple. You can’t just let blue be a perfectly fine red-less colour, can you?!”

Sherlock promptly stood up. “This date was a mistake.”

Just in that moment, their eyes met. And in the middle of this posh restaurant they even had to make reservations for, they broke into undignified and unstoppable laughter that made other patrons turn their heads in their direction, wearing displeased frowns.

However, that only sent them further into absolute madness.

(John had worried, before then. Had worried about being out in public on a real date with Sherlock.

But of course Sherlock was able to let all of those nonsensical worries be swept away before their meals even arrived by just being himself.)

**Mycroft**

“Here” Sherlock said as he put down a cup of tea in front of his brother. Mycroft accepted it graciously, drank sips from it as he pinned the other under his inquisitive gaze. There was a reason for this meeting – the slight tremor in Sherlock’s fingers (not caused by what those garish cans carried) was a clear tell.

“Begin whenever.” Mycroft said softly with a quirk of his lips.

“Yes.” the younger Holmes didn’t beat around the bush (although he sure was good at that– today, though, he apparently wanted to just get it over with), “As you know, I’m... eccentric.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. Thought of a small boy painting a portrait of their mummy without ever having shown interest in art. He thought of that same boy, slightly taller than before, as he wrote entire worlds (gay, always gay for some reason) into a nondescript black notebook whilst sitting on some random bench placed in the middle of nowhere. He also thought of the reasons for why their parents were more than once inclined on placing Sherlock in a psychiatric ward. (Only prevented by Mycroft’s interventions. He always knew there was a deeper meaning to all of it. To the suicide letters. To the wandering. The shouting. The violin. The self-harm. His mind accumulated all of those signs and yet failed at putting them together into a bigger picture but, simultaneously, it deciphered that there must be a motive for it all.)

Mycroft opened his eyes. Saw his brother. “Obviously. I suppose you are going to bring light to that matter?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock sipped his own mint tea.

Then he nonchalantly dropped the bomb: “This is not my first life. Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character in my previous life. I’m an imposter.”

Click. The puzzle pieces finally found their respective neighbours.

Mycroft did not react. Carefully.

The worst thing about this was that it made sense.

Sherlock, that brat, had even dropped hints. _The world won’t end until 2012 – and even then it’ll still persist. It’s indestructible and yet so very fragile._ – **Kill Forever** , published 2009, a homage to the various conspiracy theories concerning the ending Maya calendar that have started popping up at the end of 2011.

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, forgoing his composed nature entirely as something wormed itself into the depths of his very being; tiny worms and maggots digging and tearing through layers of dust covering long-forgotten memories. “September 2001 you suddenly came down with an illness and refused to let me go on my student exchange trip to the US. I never specified where I’d have stayed but... considering the new information, you’d have undoubtedly wanted to make sure I survived 9/11. You refused to let me leave. I’d have gone to LA.”

“...I couldn’t risk it. Sometimes, world events are the same. Other times, they’re not. I couldn’t possibly discern whether _That Event_ would take place here as well or not.” The younger man was biting his lip raw, “Could I have prevented it, do you think?”

A bitter laugh tore itself out of Mycroft’s mouth before he could defuse it. “You were twelve years old. Mummy thought you were made of glass and dad wanted to lock you up in a ward. Do you know what would have happened had you said something?” He shook his head, “So, no. You couldn’t have. Either you’d not have been taken seriously and it’d have still occurred, landing you in an FBI facility or it wouldn’t have and you’d have been spirited away to god knows where because our parents – and yes, they’re still _our_ parents – would have thought of it as something **dangerous**. I remember quite well how the Powers case ended with you in a therapist’s office.”

Sherlock huffed bitterly. “Where they found out that I’m _Very Ordinary_ intelligence-wise. Of course. It wasn’t me who solved the case but Sherlock Holmes.”

“It was you, then.”

“Have you not listened to me?! I’m an imposter – I’m _not_ Sherlock Holmes!”

Mycroft clicked his tongue – an act of obvious displeasure – and crossed his legs. He had put himself together once more, neat and proper, and did decidedly not indulge his brother’s identity crisis. “Oh, I did listen. I combined, too. And I must say I’m surprised at your nonsensical concerns. You have not chosen this life and therefore you are, as we all are, just the person you were born as. What does it matter that this seat you have taken would have otherwise been occupied by someone else? The same could be said for anyone. Would you have shunned me had I been the reincarnated soul?”

“...of course not.”

“See. It’s just that simple. You have always lived your life, Sherlock. Whether you wanted to or not. Those novels didn’t write themselves.”

A far-away look settled on the younger’s face. “No, I suppose they didn’t.”

“Should I find out whether there are any traces of your previous life lingering in this one?” asked Mycroft lightly as he put down the china and crossed his fingers in his lap.

“...yes, that’d... that’d be appreciated.”

“Well. It is almost eleven. I better head off, now. Send me the name and location and I’ll see what I can gather.” Mycroft stood up, glanced at his brother, “Do try to write a list of events you remember that may or may not take place.”

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. Then he frowned. “Shit.” he hissed, eyes snapping towards Mycroft, “2020.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the outburst. “A whole year?”

“Weeeell...”

“Oh, dear.”

The consulting detective grimaced. “I’m definitely writing that one down. In detail. But I’ll give you a tip just in case it happens – from one brother to another: Hoard toilet paper and hand sanitizer like there’s nothing that's worth more.”

Mycroft visibly swallowed, pursed his lips and let out a breath. “...alright.”

**Season 4**

One night, Sherlock awoke with a gasp. His clammy fingers immediately searched for his mobile phone and pressed ‘call’ when they landed on a contact aptly named **It’s Raining Man**.

“Be honest with me.” he slurred into the receiver.

“...Sherlock?”

“Mycroft. We _don’t_ have a sister called Eurus, right? RIGHT?! I don’t want to have this weird plane scene where there’s a little girl and all of a sudden it’s her and she has access to a phone... is there a Sherrinford? I don’t even know WHAT happened in that season but I know that I don’t want to live through it. There was no Redbeard – dog or kid – but that doesn’t have to mean anything and-”

“What the hell are you on about? No, we don’t have a sister.”

“No Eurus?”

“No Eurus.”

Sherlock sobbed in relief. “God, Myc, I love you, you know? I love you so much.”

“Can we talk about-“

“About this? Season 4? No, if there’s no need, I’ll never talk about it. Bye!”

“Sherlock!”

“ _Bye-hye_!”

“SHER-“

Sherlock ended the call, flung his phone into a pile of dirty clothes and hugged Kakashi-sensei with a serene smile.

All was right.


End file.
